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The raging main
Again was tempted, ere upon the shore
Of San Francisco, with a motley throng
From every clime, she stood.
Death met her there,
And with cold grasp, his fatal welcome seal'd.
Faintly, her pale lips sigh'd, "The vale is dark,
But Jesus is beside me."
There she lay
Breathless, and wasted as a skeleton,
Yet, on her brow a smile.
Amid the pangs
With which that stricken husband bow'd him down,
Was no remorseful sorrow o'er his haste
To gather gold?—no painful imagery
Of a sweet cottage mid New England's hills
With her, who would have solace'd all his care,
Yet, neath his feet, now found a stranger's grave?
